Black, White and Read All Over
by Cthulhu On Rye
Summary: [PreRent] Looking for inspiration in all the wrong places


Authors' Note: es, the line about the series of rooms is a throwback to House, this fic wa wirtten for a challenge where we had to somehow make the line fit in. Just thought you ought to know since it's been pointed out a few times.

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He has read the paper eight times now (ten if he counted the two times he "skimmed" over it) but he sees nothing of interest, nothing that he's been waiting for.

The paper is held tight between his fingers as he goes over it a ninth (eleventh) time, just in case. There had to be something here, anything at all to give him an idea, just a little bit of inspiration. Of course he couldn't actually _say _what he was looking for but that didn't matter too much, it never had before

The other papers were behind him, waiting to be picked through again for the…well he didn't know how many times now (except he did because if there was one thing he remembered it was numbers but only because they had a way of sounding, of _singing _to him. He could remember just about anything if it would sing to him.).

Mark has walked through the door and is holding something, another newspaper, and he smiles warily. Roger makes no move to return the silent greeting just turns the page and gives the older man an approving nod when he feels the weight of the paper being dropped on the couch cushion.

"You should eat something," Mark says softly as he moves across the loft, probably to pour himself a cup of weak coffee.

Roger won't tell him that he can't eat, that the thought of food makes him sick to his stomach, and he even skips over the small advertisements for restaurants because they make him dizzy.

Besides, he's pretty sure that Mark knows this already.

Another turn of the page and another disappointment.

"What're you looking for?" Mark finally asks from the spot opposite himself. He's not actually sure when the other had moved there, or how long he had been watching but considering that he'd always taken the blond for one of those eerie observant types, (because yeah, he's always found people like that a little unnerving but maybe that was because he knew he was just like them) he doubts that he had ever _stopped _watching.

"Will you answer me?" Oh, he's getting snippy now. It's understandable, they go through something like this every day, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less, but never enough for it to be useful, for it to be inspiring.

"Roger, will you just fucking look at me?" The words were expected but not the touch, not the hand pulling at his shoulder and the sounds of the newspaper tearing as it's pulled away. It was new, it was utterly terrifying and yet he didn't have any fear because he knew this was right. This was what he was looking for.

"What the hell was that for," he snapped back, pulling away from the blond and almost smiling (almost) at the look the other man wore. It'd been weeks since he had chosen to speak, weeks since he spat curses, or sobbed, or begged for April, for drugs, for anything that would make his world start spinning again.

He finds that his words have stunned the other man into silence and he revels in that because it was about time that someone besides him couldn't think of anything to say. It had been weeks of Mark's voice in the empty loft, weeks of the occasional glimpse of Collins before a one-sided goodbye, weeks of Maureen speaking in hushed tones as if she thinks that would keep her voice from carrying but the loft was too empty, and his mind too devoid of music for him to not have heard every single little thing that was being said.

For some people, life is merely a series of rooms and who else is in those rooms with them is what their life adds up to be. For Roger, the people weren't always important (but they mattered more than he ever thought they would) but it was that music in the background that mattered to him, that was what his life added up to be.

Eventually Mark has to break his gaze and he can forgive him for that. His eyes were that lovely shade of bloodshot red that only could be gained by lack of sleep and reading too many words with not enough meaning. He was actually surprised that the other had managed to keep his eyes fixed on him for as long as they had.

"Its getting cold out," the other informs him then, both of them turning to peer outside as snow begins to fall and the edges of his lips turn upward because he can feel change in the air, hear the soft chords of something new making their way into his mind.


End file.
